


the world is made of sugar

by aryaflint



Series: in hearts at peace [4]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Childbirth, F/M, Gen, Motherhood, Period-Typical Gender Roles, it's a hard world out there for shelbys isn't it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryaflint/pseuds/aryaflint
Summary: When Polly placed the squirming bundle of woolen blankets in her weak, trembling arms and announced that she had a daughter, Brigid cried.-Or, Brigid contemplates what it means to mother Shelbys.





	the world is made of sugar

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello!
> 
> it's been a long time since i had the time and inspiration to write in this world, so this piece kinda wrote itself as a way for me to get back into brigid's head while i start on another, much longer work about her and tommy. if you are unfamiliar with my oc brigid (bridie), feel free to read the earlier pieces to which this short bit is attached, but you certainly don't need to do so in order to read this.
> 
> the title is adapted from a line in 'if i should have a daughter' by sarah kay, which also served as great inspiration for this piece's theme. go give it a listen before or after you've read :)

When Polly placed the squirming bundle of woolen blankets in her weak, trembling arms and announced that she had a daughter, Brigid cried.

“A girl,” she whispered, and the words tumbled out around a sob. “A _girl_.”

Her whole body was throbbing and her heart was racing and God, there was still the afterbirth to get through. She was woozy and hot and more emotions that she could possibly name were brimming in her chest, but Brigid carefully, delicately, arranged the blankets until she could study her daughter’s face - her cheeks bright red and slick, the icy blue eyes of her father winking up at her mother, the tufts of dark curls matted at her temples. And Brigid cried.

Hot, fast tears dampened her daughter’s blankets, blurred the sight of Polly changing out the bloody towels and Esme bringing more water, and Bridie was at a loss for words, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She could only run a soothing thumb across her daughter’s round cheek, watch as she kicked tiny feet and flailed even tinier fists. A love unlike any she had ever known bloomed in every crack of her heart, every dark memory of blood and babies and pain - Brigid loved her daughter and she loved the man with whom she had made her and she loved loved _loved_.

But Brigid cried, and she prayed.

_Thank you._

She had spent the past six months praying - for a safe pregnancy, for an easy birth, for a healthy babe.

For a child who would grow up hale and hearty, innocent and secure. Who would skip through the country grass instead of the Small Heath mud, who would know every good and sweet thing that this world had to offer.

For a child who need never throw a punch or pull a trigger, who never had to scrub another’s blood out from under their fingernails or watch the life slip from a man's eye.

She had prayed for a girl.

(Tommy would want a boy, of course, eventually - a bright little boy to teach about horses, about guns and business, about what was owed and what was earned. He would be darling, and they would name him Patrick after her dear, departed brother.

Brigid would love him no more and no less than the fragile, wonderful, miraculous babe in her arms, and if God was good, they’d have even more. Boys and girls, each of them bright-eyed and whip-smart and filled with promise, who would strive like their father, teach like her mother, see like their Aunt Polly, laugh like her brother. She wanted enough children to field a football squad, children who could watch each other's backs and cry on each other's shoulders and say, "What would Uncle Arthur do?" and remind each other that _maybe_ it isn't always best to actually do what Uncle Arthur would do.

For Shelby was a hard name to bear, whether it be on a clever young girl or a stubborn young boy, and they would need all the help they could get.

After all, Brigid had seen first hand what its weight could do on the shoulders of just one man.)

_Thank you._

Because a Shelby boy would learn from his father - how to fight for what he wants and protect the ones he loves - and it would be up to her to edit, to mend, to remind him that the world did not have to be made of scars and suspicion and starvation but rather could be spun like sugar, fragile and sweet.

And a Shelby girl would learn the world for what it was, what it could _be_ , and by God, she would learn it from her _mother._

_Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> i do hope that you enjoyed this - please comment and tell me what you think below! <3


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